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On a winter's night.

Sometimes late on a winter night, when midnight comes and I still haven't been able let go the day, and the wind is still, and it's not as cold as the calendar says it ought to be, and it is too dark to see the mountains, but you can feel them watching, I stand on my porch and look down across our little town of seven hundred souls and a handful, and watch the last car of the night come trickling down Greenville street, and knowing well that we comprise a clutch of sinners neither more virtuous nor more blameworthy than the average in any small place in the world tonight, something like love steals unbidden into my heart and fills it, and I know for certain in that moment that love has held us until now, for none of us would be here at all otherwise.

If everybody could feel that and know that together at the same time, none would be capable of the horrors and atrocities we humans habitually inflict on one another. Hell is no more nor less than the sum of our collective ignorance.